If I Were You
by Bloody Hell Granger
Summary: Draco and Hermione are sent to Italy on a curse-breaking mission. However, when a curse takes an unexpected turn, they'll have to learn to walk a mile in each other's shoes...and nothing will be the same again. (Rated M for later chapters)
1. A Surprise Vacation to Italy

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series, nor am I the wonderful creator of any recognizable characters in this story._

* * *

**_A Surprise Vacation to Italy_**

"Good morning, Rory," greeted Hermione Weasley warmheartedly as she walked into her office, clutching under one arm a stack of papers and holding a cup of tea in her free hand. As usual, she was exactly on time. She'd never been one to clock in a minute late, even though she would have earned the right long ago. She _had_, after all, been voted the most punctual employee for eight months in a row.

Aurora Baumgartner, her rather distracted secretary, looked up at her boss's voice, smiling at the greeting. If there was something to be thankful for, it was that Hermione had been assigned her boss. There had been a 50-50 chance that she would be stuck with the prat that worked in the office next door. "Morning, Mrs Weasley," she responded, reaching into the cabinet by her knees. Hermione waited expectantly by the desk as Rory pulled out a couple of slips of paper. "You've got two messages—one from Mr Delta, and one from Mr Potter." She handed the messages over to Hermione, then shut the cabinet and returned to her work.

"Thank you, Rory," said Hermione, setting the cup on the table top as she unfolded the messages. Knowing Mr Delta's message was bound to be loaded with useless adjectives and information, she opted to read Harry's instead.

_Mione—_

_How are you? You haven't been around Grimmauld Place in ages! Ginny's been asking for you, wants to know how you're coping—as do I. She says, and I quote: "If she's been going drinking without me, I'm going to hex her three ways from Sunday!" I take it, of course, you haven't been doing that. _

_James has also been wondering about his Aunt Mione, but he's easier to dissuade than Gin. Anyway, just wanted to know how you're doing. I know things might be rocky right now, but you're always welcome here, alright? _

_Love, _

_H_

Hermione frowned at the message. Merlin, had she really distanced herself _that _much from them? Sure, her parents' house was farther from Grimmauld Place than her and Ron's house, but she'd never use that as an excuse to not visit. And James, her amazing little godson—had she really not gone to see him in a month? When she'd begun to draw up the divorce papers, she supposed, she had inadvertently accepted as a given that her friends would want nothing to do with her, instead taking Ron's side. She really did miss them, though. As much as she loved her parents, they suffocated her when she stayed inside the house, as her old house with Ron was no longer an option.

Deciding she would scribble a reply when she was on her next coffee break, she pocketed the note in her rather tight navy pencil skirt. She picked up the cup of tea and walked towards her office, pausing only slightly to nudge the door open with the tip of her black pumps. She never bothered to close or lock the door, even in her absence, because her workspace was essentially always empty. She took her materials home, and whatever she left here was not worth keeping for long. All the confidential files were stored behind lock and key in a vault in her closet, anyhow.

She took a seat behind her desk, smoothing out her skirt before she shook out her arms and began to flip through the files, searching for the one on the Tiber Treasure.

Three years after the war, Harry had married Ginny, as had always been predicted. It had been _the_ wedding in the wizarding world, though they had kept it relatively personal. Only five hundred lucky guests had been invited, including relatives, select Hogwarts classmates, and close family friends. Ron had gotten his act together and proposed to Hermione months after the Potters' wedding, and she had tearfully accepted. Their wedding, though nearly equally celebrated, had been a smaller affair, with a more traditional Muggle ceremony. Three hundred wizards and witches had attended, more or less, and Hermione had worn her mother's surprisingly modern wedding dress.

She and Ron had found a nice, two-story house in Godric's Hollow, with a view of the graveyard—which spooked Ron to no end—and of the sunset in the uninterrupted landscape ahead. They had no children, but after two more years, they began to talk more openly about it. That was, to be honest, where the problem started.

Ginny had escaped this fate due to her fiery personality and the adoring husband she'd ended up with. Molly, well, it was clear she had been submitted into the slot. Basically, Mrs Weasleys should be nice, obedient housewives, entitled to their spitfire outbursts once in a while but generally submissive otherwise. Hermione, having been raised by two dentists that had managed to find a balance in their work, vehemently disagreed. When the child was born, she would continue her work as a part-time curse breaker for Gringotts, and Ron could…goof off, as she'd so errantly snapped at him once, in the joke shop. However, Ron had insisted that she be a stay-at-home mother until the child was of school age, and then she could take up, not her full career, but a part-time job. Repeated, rather heated arguments were fired back and forth on several occasions, beginning with the rare once-a-week spat and eventually morphing into a venomous nightly war resulting in Ron hogging the bed and Hermione dragging a pillow and a blanket down to the living room sofas.

Oh, their arguments didn't only focus on being a housewife. Occasionally Ron would demonstrate his foot-in-mouth syndrome and comment on a woman's place in society, a rather chauvinistic view that Hermione most definitely did not share. Admittedly, Hermione often did slip up as well, insisting that she'd be more agreeable to the stay-at-home mother status if his job paid the bills properly, effectively wounding not only Ron's ego but also his already insecure masculinity.

Finally, Hermione decided she'd had enough backaches from sleeping on the sofa, enough tears from not being able to speak with her husband without screaming and shouting, and had gone quietly to draw up divorce papers. It had been two weeks since then, and Ron was still blatantly opposed to signing them. Though he'd done nothing but wound their marriage, he was still for saving it. Consequently, she was not yet allowed to go by her maiden name. She was still legally Mrs Hermione Weasley, though she knew she had stopped being so in her heart a couple of months ago.

However, for the time being, the divorce was kept quiet. Nobody knew of it except for her parents, Harry, and Ginny. Not even the Weasleys knew, mostly because she was not ready to disappoint Molly, who she had always found awfully endearing.

Now, she unconsciously bit her lip, her jaw clenching as she tried to fight off flashbacks from their arguments—which haunted her endlessly.

_"Well, if you'd just get a bloody _job_!" _

_"I have a job, woman, I have one! Just because _you _don't approve of it—"_

_"Fucking hell, here we go again—"_

_"See? We can't even have _one_ conversation without you swearing—"_

_"Oh, _me _swearing? _I'm _the one who swears, Ronald? Really?!"_

She shook her head urgently, freeing her mind from the echoes of their shouts as she returned her attention to the matter at hand—literally. She still had left Mr Delta's note untouched to the side, sitting nicely on top of her stack of files. Tentatively, she opened it, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be something crude. Even when she was still "happily" married to Ron, her boss had constantly asked her out, flirted with her in the most inappropriate of ways—via very readable notes during work hours—and had even once asked to take her home after a round of celebratory drinks.

Thankfully, this note was none of that. It was an oddly professional note, with not even a colourful innuendo at the end, which made Hermione suspect that he wasn't the one who had written it.

_Mrs Weasley—_

_There will be a meeting at nine thirty in the board room. Please bring any and all papers or files you may have regarding the Tiber Treasure, as that will be our topic of discussion. _

_—Mr Thomas Delta _

She raised her eyebrows. The Tiber Treasure had been one of the more difficult cases to crack, despite her rather extensive research on the matter. Buried in the banks of the Tiber River in Italy, it was guarded by a strange curse that was, at the moment, unknown. In fact, it was guarded by _two_, though the first one was defensive and the second offensive. The first conjured a lightning storm, only visible and affecting to the person trying to reach the treasure. The second one, well, nobody had stayed past the first curse. She had already discovered the nature of the first curse—a rather creative take on the _Aguamenti_, _Lumos_, and disillusionment charms—but the second was unknown to the department.

A quick glance at her watch informed her that the meeting was to be held in three minutes. Knowing Mr Delta, she ought not to be late, even if she was under a more favourable scrutiny than the other workers. Deciding she could carry the folder in one arm, she left her bag behind, clipping her hair up into a bun held by a stray quill. She snatched up her cup of tea and quickly made her way out of the office and down the hall, into the board room.

To her immediate embarrassment, it seemed that almost everyone had arrived early, including Mr Delta. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she swallowed nervously as she clutched the folder protectively against her chest, briskly walking around and taking her seat. She brushed away strands of hair, and carefully folded her hands on the table, one leg crossing over the other as she looked at her boss dutifully.

"I'm curious: Is it actually possible for you to be on time, Weasley?" a voice breathed into her ear.

Having grown used to his constant workplace jabs, she suppressed a yelp and jump of surprise, instead turning her head towards him almost imperceptibly and hissing through gritted teeth, "I'm two minutes _early_, Malfoy!"

"Tsk, tsk," Draco whispered, using the pretence of looking through her papers to lean over towards her. "Not early enough, love." He sat back in his chair smugly, his arms crossed. As usual, he was clad in his traditionally grey dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair, not long nor particularly short, was messed in a way Hermione could only assume was intentional. There was light stubble on his chin, and a couple of worry lines on his brow, but otherwise he maintained the mischievous boyish quality he'd had as a teenager.

Hermione herself had aged very well. She'd filled out in all the right places, if she said so herself, and had grown half a foot. Her face remained youthful, though her eyes had aged classily, and she kept herself fit. Her hair, thanks to the porch installed in her old house, had lightened just enough to be noticed, and she had done some Muggle treatments to tone down the puffiness of her locks.

All in all, they both looked very attractive.

"Ahem," Mr Delta cleared his throat at the head of the table. Both heads snapped up to attention, and he leaned forward in his seat. A short, rather thin man with a head full of grey hair despite his mere thirty-eight years, Mr Delta wasn't very intimidating to the eye. It was his deep rumble of a voice that really kept his employees in check. "As you are all well aware, the Tiber Treasure mystery has undergone no noticeable improvements. Despite having our best researchers on the case, the curse has not even been cracked yet. Have any of you deciphered its nature yet?"

There was a general silence throughout the board room. Hermione didn't need to glance around to know that, like her, everyone was nervously looking down at their papers. She had a mere theory, but did not want to put it forth in case it was shot down.

"Yes, Mrs Weasley?"

_Bloody hell, _she swore to herself in her mind, immediately placing walls around her mind. Mr Delta was a very skilled Legilimens, as was expected and required from a curse breaker supervisor. Timidly, she began searching through her papers until she pulled out the article she was looking for.

"Well," she began nervously, absentmindedly chewing the inside of her cheek as she coughed daintily. "I investigated a bit on the Tiber Treasure itself, rather than trying to find information on its curse. As it turns out, the river is a home of the Roman god Tiberinus. Tiberinus is one of the children of Janus, the two-faced god of beginnings and endings, gates and doors, and time."

"Come on, Weasley, I know you disapprove of polytheism, but that's no reason to call Janus two-faced," called out Draco, lounging back. His foot was resting on his knee, and he seemed as relaxed in his element as ever. Her blood boiled as she looked over at him.

"It is not _name_-calling, Malfoy; Janus is literally a two-faced god," she seethed, trying and failing to keep her temper under control. She took a deep breath and turned once more towards Mr Delta, who she noticed was paying a little too much attention to her skirt. _Dammit_. "Anyway, Janus is thought to be the principal god of Roman mythology. Now, I know you're wondering why I would put so much stock on a _myth_," she began defensively, holding up her hands as her back straightened, giving her a more confident poise. It was only after she got the ball rolling with the information she was comfortable with that she resumed an ounce of her self-confidence in these types of meetings. "But after some more research, I found that Janus is linked to a powerful wizard of the Roman times: Anastagio Ambrosi. Ambrosi was charitable and eager to share knowledge and _most _of his wealth. However, he was a rich pureblood—" against her will she chanced a glance at Draco, who was staring at her blankly "—and had a heavy inheritance. This inheritance, based on further knowledge, was never passed down. Ambrosi never married, nor did he leave an heir. All he earned, he donated. What he inherited, however, remained hidden."

"Essentially, you're saying that Ambrosi and Janus are one?" asked a blonde witch sitting across from her. Hermione looked over at her and nodded.

"But how can that be?" piped up a non-too-bright newcomer near the end of the table opposite Mr Delta.

"Throughout the centuries, millennia even, great wizards with known powers have disguised themselves under aliases, in order to maintain anonymity," she explained, a knowing spark in her eye. _This _was her element, _this _was her stage. "Ambrosi named himself Janus, and was thus known throughout history. After his death, his stories became no more than myths, legends. But his inheritance was intact, and still is."

"So Ambrosi's treasure is the Tiber Treasure in the banks of the river," clarified Mr Delta, raising a quizzical eyebrow. She nodded diligently, and next to her, Draco let out a derisive snort, which she fought to ignore.

"Though Ambrosi was a well-rounded wizard, he was especially known for his talents in transfiguration, disillusionment charms and the like. I figured this might be important because it could hint at the possible nature of the curse. After all, charms were his specialty."

Mr Delta nodded slowly, absorbing this new information. As often as it was, he had to admit she had a very valid point. She always did. It was part of why he liked her so much. "Alright," he agreed. He watched eagerly as her face lit up with badly hidden enthusiasm, and he decided on something else. It was high time she took a bit of a vacation. "Since I will need someone to test this theory, Mrs Weasley, I will need you to take the rest of the week off to go to Italy."

Her excited demeanour slipped off her face swiftly, leaving him in doubt as to whether or not it would be a good idea to send her alone to Italy. _Well, of course not alone!_ Italy was such a romantic spot, and he knew Hermione to be a rather conservative woman when it came to extravagant vacations as a couple. "I mean, you are welcome to take a guest along with you. Arrangements may be made for—" he took a deep breath, hoping his voice wouldn't show the loathing he had, before continuing with something he definitely was opposed to. "Arrangements may be made for your husband to join you. It's just, as you are the one who has developed this theory, you should be the one to investigate it."

Hermione winced at the mention of her husband. _Yeah, I will just take my soon-to-be ex-husband on a romantic trip to Italy to test a curse. Surely, that plan has no flaws. _Instead of voicing this aloud, she said reluctantly, "I think I can manage on my own, thanks." In all honesty, she did not even want to go—by herself or otherwise—but she found it would be rude to downright reject the offer. After all, it was very generous. Gringotts curse-breakers on business trips were given a free pass, as they didn't have to pay a Knut, and she'd always wanted to go to Italy anyway.

"Nonsense, I won't have you running about in Italy by yourself! That curse may be dangerous, Mrs Weasley," insisted Mr Delta, his brow furrowed anxiously. He was not about to let her wander off with those warm-blooded Italian men. It was bad enough he had Ron to contend with; he was _not_ going to let someone else interfere. He looked around the table, at the curse-breakers who were now almost hypnotically looking down at the table. All except for one, that is; _this _particular one was looking at Hermione rather defiantly. _This could work, _he thought to himself. "Mr Malfoy, you go with her."

Hermione's eyes immediately narrowed from their previously bewildered, wide state, to two barely open suspicious slits. What was Delta playing at, sending her and _Malfoy _anywhere together? "I'd rather not," she protested, just as Draco said, "Sure, why not?"

She turned to him, her eyebrows indecisively furrowing and raising. "You—you—_why_?" she asked. Well, it was more of a plead than a question, actually.

"Meeting adjourned," announced Mr Delta authoritatively, standing up with his hands flat on the table. "You are all dismissed, except for Mr Malfoy and Mrs Weasley. Please, the both of you, stay behind."

Hermione watched despairingly as her other colleagues dutifully filed out of the office, probably thanking some unknown deity for not having forced them into a mission for Delta. Mr Delta, though not a particularly intimidating figure, could be quite terrifying when crossed or disappointed. She sunk lower into her seat, burying her face in her hands. Next to her, Draco rolled his eyes. She could be such a drama queen when she really put herself to it.

"Now," began Mr Delta once the room was cleared, "I am aware of your mutual animosity." Both adults suppressed a scoff; that was a gentle way of saying that they openly disliked each other.

Sure, Draco had moved past the blood prejudices, but she was still Gryffindor's Golden Girl, the girl with the perfect life and the perfect family and the perfect friends. Meanwhile, in Hermione's eyes, Draco was still the Slytherin Prince, the rich kid who was trying to prove something by earning his own money to satisfy his utterly materialistic wife and mother. Needless to say, they were not exactly sympathetic with each other.

"But," he continued, "in light of the situation, I am expecting both of you to put aside your differences and whatever petty school disputes remain unsettled, and collaborate efficiently when investigating the curse."

Hermione nodded her agreement, accepting that, obviously, they would not achieve anything if they weren't behaving in the utmost professional way. Draco, however, was not upset about the deal, but he was miffed that they were only investigating the curse. "With all due respect, _sir_," he muttered grudgingly, hating having to address someone with such terms, "but wouldn't it be more effective to have us try to break the curse? You will have two fully skilled curse breakers on the scene; why not take advantage of the situation and put us to good use? Right, Weasley?"

Hermione was still recovering from the shock at what he had just said. _Two fully skilled curse breakers. TWO. _Did he really think she was fully skilled? _Well, of course I am!_ she thought indignantly, trying to reassure herself. Still, it wasn't so much whether or not the comment was true, than the fact that it was _Malfoy _who had said it in the first place. "What? Oh, er, yes, definitely," she bluffed, having no clue what Draco had been saying.

Mr Delta looked carefully between the two, his own eyebrows furrowed curiously. He had honestly only chosen Malfoy because he knew they didn't get along, so there was no chance for some workplace romance to sprout. Had he been mistaken? "As logical as that may seem," he admitted, "you are two of our youngest and therefore less experienced curse breakers." This was true; at twenty-five and twenty-four years, Hermione and Draco had worked at Gringotts for only about two years. "Your practice has been limited to theoretical office work, research. You are not yet qualified to take on field duty."

Draco huffed impatiently, slumped against the chair, while Hermione gritted her teeth to keep from snapping at her boss, and instead busied herself with starting to put away her papers. "When will you need us to travel?" she asked, taking a deep breath before she calmly looked up at Mr Delta.

"Meet at our international apparition point on Wednesday at eight in the morning," he told both of them, beginning to stand up. Draco and Hermione remained sitting, knowing from experience that they were not dismissed unless he left or explicitly told them so. "That will give you…two days to pack, and two days for us to make the proper housing arrangements. You will, of course, be staying in a wizard hotel, however this small town is mostly inhabited by Muggles. Outside of the hotel and off-site, you will both be expected to adhere to the Statute of Secrecy. This means your wands must remain unused for when you are in Muggle company. Is that understood?"

Hermione nodded, fully accepting these conditions. With a loud, whiny groan, Draco forced himself to nod, knowing that failure to do so would result in his immediate expulsion from duty—something he did _not _want.

"Right then, I will send you your Muggle documents tomorrow via owl, and I will inform Niccolo—" their on-site professional at the moment "—of your impending arrival. You are both dismissed."

Draco and Hermione bowed their heads before rising from their seats, heading towards the door. The irritable, and equally irritating, blond walked out the door, letting it close behind him. Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned her head back, exasperated. _Ever the gentleman._ She opened the door, holding it for herself with the heel of her shoe, even as Mr Delta called out to her.

"You'd do well to wear those skirts less often," he warned her, a knowing glint in his eye.

She cocked her head to the side, slightly puzzled. This was not his typical commentary. "Sir?"

"Or more often," he amended, shrugging to show his indifference. "But only if you're willing to follow through."

. . .

"What are you playing at?" asked Hermione, at once barging into Draco's office. His assistant, Cristina, came running behind the brunette, offering flustered apologies at not having stopped the other witch. Draco held one hand up at the girl, dismissing her wordlessly, before turning towards his former classmate with an amused expression across his face.

"I haven't the slightest idea as to what you are talking about," he lied, raising an eyebrow. _A challenge. _

"Why would you agree to this?" she insisted, slamming both of her hands flatly onto the surface of the desk. She leaned over him threateningly, though by his eyes filled with laughter she could tell she wasn't exactly having the desired effect. "Why would you accept to go to Italy with me?"

"Relax, Weasley, I don't have some fucking crush on you or anything," he groaned, slightly miffed that she was so insulted by his company. Why shouldn't he accept? A pitiful school rivalry wouldn't get him to pass up on this opportunity. Did she, by some twisted miracle, think him daft? "It's a vacation and I'm not about to let it slip through my fingers," he snapped when he realized she still sported a bewildered expression.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, raising a quizzical eyebrow at his comment. Why the hell would a spoiled rich boy need a vacation? His whole _life _was a holiday, for crying out loud! "Need to get away from your wife, Malfoy?" she snorted, annoyed.

It was no secret that Draco and Astoria got along miserably. Before the war, the Greengrasses, some of Voldemort's most prized followers, had founded a mutually beneficial engagement between their oldest, Daphne, and the only Malfoy heir. However, they later found a better prospect: Paris Lestrange, who had thankfully not inherited his parents' hysterical tendencies. Astoria was promptly engaged to Draco in her sister's stead, which was still very profitable for both families. Unbeknownst to the public, though, Astoria was unfortunately barren. This would not bode well in a marriage, as she was expected to bear a Malfoy heir. As soon as she had been found out, Narcissa had begun to engineer a quiet, honourable divorce. Astoria's and Draco's forged love, however, dissolved much more quickly. After realising she held no future for him, Draco had begun to pursue other options, threading through their social circles to find someone equally as eager to carry his heir. Astoria, ever the obedient pureblood wife, kept all of this silent, and so the public was only aware of one thing: the marriage was doomed.

Still, Draco couldn't help the low growl that arose from the back of his throat. Even if they were getting a divorce soon, Astoria and Draco still had a relationship, and he wasn't about to let some little Mudblood make fun of him for it. Oh, he'd stopped that line of blood supremacy consciousness years back, one year before the war; but he was so angry at Granger that he could have brought up that hateful term merely out of spite. "Stay out of things you don't fucking understand, nosy bint," he snapped hotly, swiftly standing up from his chair to tower over her instead.

She tilted her chin up, refusing to back down from their supposed staring contest. This didn't happen often, as thankfully they managed to keep their contact to a minimum. Still, that didn't completely rule out some minor, sour workplace spats, like this one for example. "The good life not working out for you?" she taunted, her eyes narrow.

He leaned back, resigning from the fight. "If I had an inkling that your life was even a bit harder than mine, Golden Girl, I might say your argument is valuable," he hissed, pushing past her to exit his office.

* * *

Hermione stepped out of the fireplace and kicked off her shoes, dropping her purse on the ground beside her without a second thought. She was mentally exhausted from that day. She had spent a good portion of her work hours being debriefed on the Tiber case—unnecessarily so, seeing as she had been the one to provide most of the research—and was only now, at nine, getting home. There had been a half an hour delay on the floo thanks to some malfunctioning powder, and she'd been next to last in the damn queue.

Or maybe, the true source of her lethargy was the fact that tomorrow she'd have to go to her old house in Godric's Hollow to clean out the last of her belongings. True, there was not much left other than some bed sheets she adamantly insisted were _hers_, bought and used; some self-maintenance products she had missed on her first sweep; and a shelf's worth of books that had not fit in her boxes. Still, she was not in the mood to have to deal with Ron, who would invariably be waiting for her with a plea on his face.

Out of the two of them, it was very difficult to gauge which one was taking the divorce harder. Sure, Hermione had been the one who inspired the idea and actually went to the Ministry to draw up the papers, but that did not make it any easier on her. She loved him very much, but knew that she was not willing to compromise to his terms and rather chauvinistic wishes. She could not wrap her head around the idea of being single and not being with him. After the divorce, she hoped, she wanted them to remain friends—but she knew that this would not be the case. Too many things had been said by then to amend it.

Ron was absolutely devastated when she brought home the papers. He had not been working towards a beneficial solution for both parties, but at the same time, he was not willing to just give up on their thus far three-year marriage. Hermione had nearly broken down in tears when she saw the hurt on his face that day, but knew that if the papers were signed she would not have to see his pain anymore. She would stop causing it then.

Still, he refused to sign them yet. He was trapping her in the marriage, begging her to reconsider even after her logical arguments that nothing would change. In protest, Hermione had taken the initiative and moved out. Well, originally she had wanted to stay, but she knew that when the divorce was finalized he would be the owner of the house, since her income exceeded his. He had done everything he could to keep her from moving out, to no avail; she was gone within the month.

"Mione? Is that you?" called a voice from upstairs, one of the lights flickering on. Hermione blinked several times for her eyes to adjust. Merlin, had it really been that dark? Hermione's mother tentatively made her way down the stairs, reaching over to switch on another light. "Oh, my goodness, you scared me!" she breathed, clearly relieved as she brought up a hand to her chest. She was wearing a light olive green robe over her white gown, obviously having been tucked in by the time her daughter had arrived. She looked back up the stairs, cupping her hand around her mouth and calling out, "Clay, it's just Hermione!"

A guilty blush spread over Hermione's cheeks, as she had not expected them to be alarmed by her arrival. "Sorry I came home so late, I—"

"These work hours are barbaric!" exclaimed Jean, rushing over to her daughter and taking her face in her hands, as if checking for a fever. She disapproved of late work hours, thinking it was ridiculous that an office job that could be worked at from home demand such long days. And no, she was no fool, she knew Hermione worked when she was at home most of the time. "Do you want anything to eat? I'm sure you must be famished! I think we have some leftover food from our dinner—we ordered Chinese, if that's alright with you—and maybe I can pour some tea—"

Hermione tuned out her mother, having already heard this ramble on previous nights. There was a Muggle sandwich store near the bank, one of her favourites, and whenever she bought lunch from there she made sure to get some dinner as well. No matter how many times she explained this to her mother, she still fussed over her eating habits. Maybe it was one of the 'perks' of being a dentist. She didn't know. "No, Mum, it's okay, I've eaten already," she insisted, shaking her head. This woman barely let her breathe! "I think I'm just going to head on up to bed, I'm awfully tired."

"You should be!" huffed Jean, miffed. In a moody undertone she added, "Barmy, having you get home at this hour." She crossed her arms, pulling her robe a little tighter over herself as she tilted her head worriedly and headed into the kitchen. "How was work today?"

"It was alright," shrugged Hermione, following Jean. She'd been in a nasty mood, but why—? Oh. "Er, mum? On Wednesday, I'll be traveling to Italy."

This froze Jean, who had begun serving herself and her daughter some tea, despite the latter's protests. "Wha—_Italy_? What will you do in _Italy_?"

"There's a job for me there," said the younger woman simply. She knew her mother was not overly excited about Hermione's job. After all, a Gringotts curse breaker was hardly what she had envisioned for her daughter. Having Hermione explain about the Tiber Treasure case, and the curse, would be exhausting and unnecessary. "Some research."

"A job?" demanded Jean, very surprised. "I thought your work was theoretical?" She sounded a bit suspicious, which made sense to Hermione. After all, she _had _assured her mother that her job was entirely related to books.

"Research," Hermione repeated mechanically. She turned towards the steps, but was stopped by her mother's extended arm. She was holding out the cup of tea.

"Who are you going with?" she asked. "Love, I wait at home all evening for my daughter to come back and she can't even talk to me? Talk to me. Who are you going with?"

"A research partner," she replied quickly, not wanting to elaborate. She had come home too often complaining about Draco's antics at Hogwarts for her mother to be understanding about having to visit Italy with him. "A wizard. You don't know him."

Jean hummed her disapproval of such a vague answer, but let it go nevertheless. "You go to the house tomorrow, right?"

The brunette witch nodded solemnly. How could she forget? "I'll just be picking up some of my leftover belongings; expect me home around noon."

"You won't even treat the boy to lunch?" her mum demanded, sounding miffed about the situation. She had grown to like Ron—as much as she _could_, anyway, since she disapproved more of his occupation than Hermione's—and knew Hermione loved him still. She would not wish this divorce on her worst enemies. "You owe him that much."

"I don't owe him anything," snapped Hermione irritably. When she saw her mother's angry frown, she sighed. "I'm sorry. That was rude, but I really do not. He was not willing to compromise for the sake of our marriage—"

"Neither were you," her mum pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Hermione quietly took a sip of her tea, and scowled. No sugar. She went to get some from the counter. Jean's eyes followed her daughter, a sad gleam overtaking them as she observed her. Her daughter had been raised to be so independent, she thought she needed nobody.

"That's different," the witch commented defensively. She didn't meet her mother's eyes as she stirred the tea now. "My decisions would not affect him. You always raised me to care for my career, and _you _managed to stay a dentist when you were raising me."

Jean hummed again, this time expectantly. "And he was raised differently. You can both compromise."

"I'll be going to bed now," she told her in lieu of a reply. Jean knew her daughter would not change her mind, but she still liked to have such conversations. "Good night, mum." Hermione set down the mug by the sink, and when she passed by her mother she gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Love you."

"I love you too," the older woman responded, raising the cup to her lips. "I'll be out for a jog tomorrow morning with Tilly, so I'll miss you leaving. Be sure to tell Ronald I said hello."

Hermione fought off the urge to reply, instead contenting herself with rolling her eyes very discretely and walking up the stairs.

. . .

Draco arrived at the floo of the house, stepping out and brushing away any specks of dust that had inadvertently collected onto his suit. Adjusting his tie, he set his briefcase down near the fireplace and headed towards the kitchen. He was nearly starving; he despised the food they handed out at the so-called buffet by the lobby of the office, and would not be caught dead going to one of those fast food Muggle restaurants.

Of course, this idea was only reinforced by the fact that it was fast food. Draco had long ago gotten over blood supremacy and segregation. He had seen during the war that what he was doing and pursuing was despicable. He had nearly cried with relief when Potter _AK_'d Voldemort. Oh, and fancy this, he and Potter were actually getting along! They were no best friends, nor did they see each other if it was not strictly necessary, but he had grudging respect for the scar-headed wizard and even greeted him whenever they passed by each other.

Now, however, politeness was far from his mind as he stepped into the kitchen, only to find not his house elf Ripple—who he'd been bullied into freeing, but had opted to stay in the manor anyways—but Astoria. The brunette sat quietly in a chair, observing him through her smooth fringe. She wore her classic pastel pink silk robe, her lengthy legs crossed—as were her arms—expectantly. Despite her submissive, striking blue eyes, her chin was tilted up defiantly, accentuated by her long locks.

"Is this any hour to arrive home?" she asked, cocking her head to the side now.

"I arrive home when I can," he told her, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "When I _want_. What did you really want to talk about?" He often got home later than this, or even in the morning when he went out for a drink or to visit Estelle. Astoria was not stupid; she knew what he was up to. She never commented on it before.

"Pansy told me she saw you with a blonde," the witch commented offhandedly, though with a noticeably more timid demeanour. When she was told she was to marry Draco Malfoy, she had expected a life of luxury, eventual love, and children. When she had actually married him, she had grown accustomed to a life of luxury, forged love, and maybe children. Not long ago, when she had been told she was barren, she had prepared herself to say goodbye to all of this. She would rather be on the market again than have her husband parading with a bunch of concubines while still married to her—though evidently, that was what he was set on doing anyway.

"Estelle," confirmed Draco, sitting down across the table from her. He yawned, severely uninterested. "You've met her. She was at your—"

"_I KNOW WHO SHE IS!_" she screamed, tears of frustration gathering in her eyes. She hated being reminded of the blonde bint. What a mistake it had been to invite her, a cousin's friend, to her birthday party. Even when they did not know she was infertile, Draco and Estelle had hit it off grandly, and she had feared he would get involved with her even when they were 'happily' married. "I _know_. I _know _who she is to you. You don't have to remind me." She sniffed angrily, furious that she was actually upset. "But," she breathed, taking in a shuddering deep breath, "we _are _still married."

"Astoria, I'm not going to just wait around for six months while the divorce is finalized," he groaned.

Her eyes narrowed. "Now you only have to wait for less than two weeks. Only ten days to go, _darling_. And I never asked you to wait around! But I will _not _have it said that my husband is cheating on me!"

The wizard's brow furrowed. What the hell? "So you're letting me continue my little charades, _as long as _it doesn't reach the public eye?"

Her silence was enough of a response.

"You don't even _care_ that I'm shagging Estelle behind your back?" he exploded angrily. It still hurt a bit!

She let a sob escape her, and she briefly wondered what she had done to deserve this façade. "Of course I _care_!" she cried, pressing her palms into her eyes in an attempt to hold back some of the tears. "Do you think it doesn't hurt to see you come back in the mornings with your bloody shirt on backwards? But what will you have me do, Draco? I can't convince you to stay with me. I can't convince you otherwise. I just have to try to get used to it, and put up a sodding mask whenever I'm in public! I _can't _have you go out with her in front of everybody!"

Draco watched his wife rant on with sad eyes. He didn't mean to hurt her, he had not even wanted to cheat on her. But he was under a lot of pressure to find a new wife, and the pureblood women were marrying off quicker than he expected. Estelle was impatient, and wanted a marriage proposal almost as soon as his divorce was finalized. He didn't even like her that much, to be honest. For one, she was not as beautiful as Astoria. Very empty-headed, too. But she was fertile—she had gone to a Healer to test—and single. And a good lay. But he had never wanted to mistreat his wife this way; he had been raised otherwise. "Pansy knew already," he said quietly, with the decency of lowering his gaze.

She rubbed her temples, exhausted already by the argument. Why had she brought it up? He was as stubborn as his father was! "I know. But if _Pansy _saw, anyone else could have. Just—" She took in another deep breath, standing up and glowering at him from above. "Just be more discrete." She began to storm out of the kitchen, but he called her back.

"If it's all the same to you," he told her, "I'll be going to Italy on Wednesday. I will probably stay for just under a week."

She froze, trembling. He had _never_ taken herto Italy. Why did Estelle get this privilege? "I wish you both the best."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not going with _her_. I'm going with Hermione Weasley."

She turned around, looking positively livid. "Are you out of your bloody _mind_? A _married Mudblood_? That is a new low for you, Drake, it really is!"

He scowled, absolutely disgusted—how _dare_ she insinuate anything is going on between him and Weasley? Ew!—and even furious. "I am not shagging her, you paranoid _bore_. Delta has assigned us to do some research by the Tiber River, not that this concerns you, and we have to stay there."

Astoria sniffed, looking down to hide the tear-glassy eyes that seemed almost too sad to bear. Was _this _what her marriage had come to? Animosity in every conversation, and her husband openly going out with his mistress? "If you want to _fuck _Estelle or Hermione or even Daphne," she spat with a shaky voice, "you can go do it in Italy, or France, or hell for all I care. As long as it's not in the bed where _we _made love." Her voice broke on the last word. "It is your right. But _don't _bullshit to me that it's a research trip; I am not a fool, and will not be taken as one." With that, she brought a hand up to hastily wipe away the tears threatening to overflow, and stomped out of the kitchen.

Draco threw his head back and groaned, running his hands through his hair. What the hell? He felt that his love life was slowly going on a downwards spiral. First Astoria, who he had convinced himself he loved for the sake of their marriage, had been declared infertile. Even at that moment, the magical contract was being reversed to no longer bind them together. Then Estelle, obviously a gold digging leech, had shown interest in him at Astoria's ball. He had politely ignored her, and had all but forgotten her in the next weeks. After the divorce began, however, she had reappeared for a ladies' lunch in their house, and this time she had been called to stay overnight while Astoria, Pansy, Daphne and some other witch had gone out for cocktails. Now she would not let one night go by without annoyingly reminding him that she had many single suitors proposing to her, and that if he wanted to keep her he'd have to act fast. Of course, he knew this was an empty threat. Not only was Estelle not very well known in their circles, but also she was not gorgeous enough to attract _that _many suitors. Anyway, he knew she would not settle for anyone poorer than him, and she was hard-pressed to find someone richer.

After tipping back an iced glass of firewhisky, he slowly trudged up to their bedroom, which they still shared despite everything. The door was open, but the lights were off. Shedding the shirt, tie and pants, he stood by the bed in his boxers, wondering if his wife was awake. The hitch of her breath when his knee sunk the mattress answered his question. He lay as far from her as he could, as per her own request after his first night with Estelle, and tried to ignore that she was, as always, wrapped in the blankets. The cold was the last thing he registered before he fell asleep.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for checking out this story! I will be updating as soon as I can (and your reviews will definitely be my greatest motivation). _

_This little plot bunny occurred to me as I watched "Se Eu Fosse Voce", so there may be vague resemblances. Once again, thank you for reading, and please review!_

_-Bloody Hell, Granger!_


	2. Welcome to Italy

**Welcome to Italy**

The visit with Ron had not gone well, at all. He had all but tried to kidnap her so that they could "talk things out, like grown witches and wizards." Of course, this had only caused her temper to flare outrageously, and she nearly hexed him unconscious when she tried to levitate her belongings out of the house, only to find that he'd placed sticking charms on them. After screamed threats and lots of pointed wands, he finally conceded unhappily, and the sadness on his face nearly caused her to change her mind. But everything had been said and done already, and all she could do was give him a hug and remind him that though he was not ideal for her, he "will someday find someone beautiful and lovely that will love [him] as much as [he] will love her."

Now, Hermione was extremely stressed out. Sure, she had packed everything and everything in her power was set, but that didn't change the fact that she would be going on a trip with one of the few people in the world she disliked. As she stepped out of the floo in the office, she checked her maroon jacket for any residues of dust. None. Brilliant. She brushed a few strands of hair away from her face with her hands before walking towards the I.A.P. The International Apparition Point was a small guarded room, one of a handful in England, and happened to be situated a few ways down the hall from her and Draco's office. It had been established recently after the Ministry passed a law forbidding international Apparition without a permit. This, of course, could only be properly regulated by completely disabling international Apparition everywhere but in designated places, such as the I.A.P. The blond git was already there waiting, looking impatient as he tapped his foot on the dark tiles.

"How nice of you to fix your hair for the occasion," he chimed in sarcastically, yet she got the feeling he was rather sour that morning. Instead of the usual prim and proper clothes he wore, he was wearing a dark V-neck sweater over a white camisole that was just barely visible over the dip, dark grey jeans, and impeccable black shoes. Clearly he had taken "vacation" too seriously.

"Sod off, Malfoy, I'm not in the mood," she huffed monotonously, refusing to let him get to her today. She was really not in the mood, though. She'd already threatened to hex her mum when she was asking her too many questions about the trip—_"Where are you staying?" "Do you have enough normal—er, Muggle money?" "Are you going sightseeing as well?"_—and did not want a repeat of the part of her ever cheery morning where she blasted a whole through the wall. _Accidentally._

Surprised at her reaction, Draco took a cautious step back. Merlin knew he'd been at the receiving end of one too many of Granger's hexes. What on earth could have _her _knickers in a twist today? She was getting paid to go on a _paid_ vacation. To do research. In _Italy. _Any other girl would be positively orgasmic with joy! What the fuck? He watched her as she crossed her arms and brushed away her bangs from her eyes. Taking out his wand, he cast a quick transfiguration spell over his clothes, refusing to be out-dressed by the infuriating Muggle-born standing a few feet away from him.

Simultaneously, they both took a seat on the vacant chairs outside the I.A.P. They had zero authority to get inside the rooms, despite Hermione's role in the war, and therefore had to wait for Mr Delta to show up—whenever he felt like showing up—to go inside. Hermione dragged her suitcase towards her until the wheels touched the tip of her shoes, and she focused almost hypnotically on the handle. Betraying herself, she quickly glanced over at her companion, who seemed to lack a suitcase himself.

"Where's your suitcase?" she asked cautiously, hoping to not set herself up for some witty insult. "And what the hell happened to your _clothes_?"

He looked down at his new attire—a dark grey dress shirt, even darker tie, and matching dark green pants and jacket—and smirked. Ah, yes. Who was under-dressed now? "Transfigured them. And as for my suitcase," he brought out a thumb-sized suitcase from his pocket. "Easy for travel."

"Pocket edition," she muttered despite herself, and could not help but let out a short laugh. Oh, Merlin. Her meetings with Ron were literally driving her insane. She ignored his inquisitive stare, instead making the mistake of thinking back to her meeting with Ron. Hell. No, no, no, she was sulking again.

Draco noticed this, too. "Trouble in paradise?" he guessed, though not sympathetically. He sounded like he was gloating, almost. "Marriage with the Weasel not what you thought it would—"

"You know what, Malfoy?" she interrupted him, still not meeting his gaze. "It must drive you insane that my life is happier now than yours." Sure, that wasn't exactly the truth, but if it meant she had something to hold over him…then so be it. "Who would've guessed, seeing as you were such an angry, misguided little boy in school?"

"Now, Weasley, I—" Draco began to defend himself angrily, insulted somewhat by her reproachful words. She had absolutely no right to judge him that way!

She held up her hand, far from finished. She was on a roll. This was everything she had let fester regretfully in her mind since the first time he called her a Mudblood—which, sure, had not been that traumatizing, taking into consideration her lack of knowledge and care in blood supremacy—and had not been able to vent out, not even to Harry and Ron, who had enough principle to hate him for all three of them. No, this time she wasn't going to bother sitting silently. "You know, I always thought it had to be something personal. That must be it. Why else would you have bullied me so much, Malfoy? Were you angry that a Muggle-born was better than you at school? That _must _have been the reason. Were you jealous? Of me?" An unknowing smile spread on her lips, as his eyes widened. She had hit the nail right on the head. "Oh," she finished quietly, unable to keep the glee away from her voice. She had never thought she was _that_ good.

But Draco, Draco was angry right then. Yes, he had been jealous. Hell, his father spent more time praising her and berating him than reminding him of her inferiority. Of course, that was not to say that Lucius had idolized the Muggle-born; but it was a great insult to have a pureblood come in second-best to a frizzy-haired nuisance, also Harry Potter's friend. He knew all too well his father's feelings about that. He winced slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he thought about how his father had yelled at him for it. "Listen, _Weasley_, don't pretend to know anything about me!" he hissed angrily. "That is absolutely none of your concern, you understand?"

Hermione could tell he wanted to say more—God, _she_ wanted to say more as well—but she could faintly hear Mr Delta's voice under Malfoy's angry rant. "Okay, okay, I apologize," she gritted out in a hurried low mutter. "I did not mean to upset you so." _Yes, I did._ "But given that we'll be travelling together in a matter of minutes—" _seconds_ "—we have to learn to work together amiably. So," she took a deep breath. _Bloody hell, here I go being the bigger person_, she thought to herself, annoyed, as she suppressed a roll of her eyes. "Let's just survive the week. When we get back, we can be as horrible to each other as we want."

That, they both recognized, would not change the attitude they had had before. After all, they worked very well together. Their reports often complemented each other, and their success rate far surpassed any other research partnership in the department. Together, as is predictable, they were a force to be reckoned with. They had their occasional bickers, such as this one—though, admittedly, the others were often smaller—but they always managed to bounce back from whatever words were said.

Draco eyed her warily, but nodded in the end. After all, he needed this job. His knowledge of Dark Magic was his main redeeming quality, being able to sniff out obscure curses that the naïve Mrs Weasley would never even suspect, and there were not many other jobs that appreciated that talent. Especially not from _him_. Sure, his name still held power in the wizarding world—after all, his father funded over half of the wizard companies, including many Quidditch broom manufacturers (much to child Draco's glee)—but it also held fear, of the bad kind, and suspicion. Other employers would not be so trusting.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, Mrs Weasley," greeted Mr Delta, a forced smile in his voice. Behind him, he was trailing two Aurors, one of which was none other than Harry Potter.

He grinned cheekily at Hermione and then briefly nodded at Draco. Hermione gave him an apologetic smile in return, waving. Her most recent interaction with him and his family, a dinner at his house, had not been that great. They had not been able to talk much, mainly due to James crying his eyes out and Ginny having to put him to sleep for nearly an hour.

Draco scowled; why did Mr Delta feel he needed to be accompanied by two Aurors?

Mr Delta noticed them staring, and he shrugged. "The main desk insists on the I.A.P. authorities being watched over," he explained.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing. In a hushed voice, she leaned towards Harry and whispered, "Is _this_ what the Boy Who Lived does nowadays?"

"That, and bottle-feed," he joked, laughing.

Needless to say, Mr Delta glared at the interaction. Mr Potter was married, sure, but so was Mrs Weasley, and anything could happen. "Right, well," he cleared his throat overly loudly. "I trust you have both reviewed your Muggle papers." Hermione and Draco nodded dutifully. He raised his eyebrow; he did not doubt that, but it was always better to check, just in case.

"Names?"

"Alicia Knowles."

"Easton Brand."

"Occupation?"

"Anthropologists."

"Time of stay?"

"Undetermined?"

"A week," corrected Hermione, rolling her eyes. "Perhaps less."

"Probably less."

"_Maybe_ le—"

"Most _definitely_," Draco snapped, "less."

"Spot on," said Mr Delta, sounding pleased with their alibis. They were convincing, and besides this was only for appearance purposes. If anything major should happen, they would be directed to the British division of the authorities, and would be able to request an audience with the Italian Minister of Magic, who would resolve everything quickly for them. They were under orders to only use their false names with Muggle authority. Wizards would recognize them, and they were suspicious enough of Malfoy without him _and_ his research partner lying about their identities. "Well. You both, I trust, have your itineraries?"

"Yes, sir," the curse breakers said automatically.

He nodded. "Brilliant. You will arrive with Niccolo, who will show you to your hotel. You will be staying in adjoining rooms, but may lock the door if you wish to do so."

Harry and Draco snorted, not too inconspicuously, and Hermione bit her tongue. _If_ they wish to do so? Oh, that door was not going to open if the world depended on it.

"Remember, no magic off-site or outside of the hotel unless absolutely necessary. You will arrive around 9 in the morning, their time, lest I be mistaken, so you will get the chance to have breakfast with Niccolo as he briefs you on the case. The rest of the day is all yours, though I suggest you do not go drinking at night given that tomorrow morning you will begin investigating."

Hermione nodded. Draco did too, but he was not as convinced. Hangover potions were not hard to find, especially in the land of wine.

Mr Delta nodded towards Harry and the other Auror, both of which stepped forward with their hands clasped behind their backs. "Alright," began the former, "you both know the procedure. What is left behind gets left behind. We are not responsible for any splinching or loss of limbs, however we suggest that to minimize damage you keep your arms and legs tucked in at all times."

Almost as if they had rehearsed it, the second Auror added, "To come back, you will have to wait sixty minutes while the I.A.P. is reset. Once inside the room, you must both stand on the allotted purple circles. You will arrive in the corresponding purple circles at your destination. Do you have your Muggle papers ready?" Hermione and Draco held up their hands, showing the files they were holding. "Brilliant. Off you go."

* * *

Hermione stumbled onto the purple circle in Italy, scowling as she rubbed her stomach with her free hand. She glanced down, making sure she had successfully apparated her suitcase as well. She quickly fixed her hair, patting down the rat's nest that always seemed to rile up whenever she travelled in this fashion. Next to her, Draco landed with firm feet and only the slightest of balance losses. He straightened out his tie, then brushed imaginary dirt off the shoulders of his jacket.

"Wow," breathed Hermione, looking around. The inside of the Italian I.A.P. was beautifully decorated with artwork by Renaissance wizard painters, such as Geovani Adinolfi and Acel Vinciguerra. She had only seen their paintings from afar, in museums, or textbooks and pamphlets about Italy. Never had she been in such close proximity to them, despite what was no doubt bulletproof protective glass surrounding them—though what kind of wizard would shoot at an Adinolfi?

Draco was less interested in the décor. His lineage could be traced back to Vafara Black, the painter of the piece directly in front of him, and Raison Malfoy, the patron of Vinciguerra and two other featured painters. He had grown up with original Isidore paintings lining his bedroom walls. "Well," he said in a very no-nonsense monotone, hands tucked into his pockets expectantly. He had never seen Hermione Granger rendered speechless, and here she was, hardly able to breathe as she looked longingly at the paintings.

"Vinciguerra…Isidore…Oh!" she gasped, pleased. "A Labrosse!"

Draco craned his neck to see if the paintings had descriptions, as tacky as they were. None of them did. The witch knew the painters by fucking _heart_.

"Labrosse was always my favourite, too," chimed in a smooth Italian voice from behind. Both British wizards turned around, alarmed, only to find a slightly older man casually leaning against the wall. An empty chair stood beside him, and they guessed he had been sitting down, waiting for them to arrive. He had dark hair and sun-kissed olive skin, and bright green eyes with thick eyelashes and brows that were not in the least unappealing. He was clad in a white turtleneck, a black, slim fit business jacket, and tight black pants with—of course—designer shoes. He stepped towards Hermione, his hand extended. She placed her hand in his, and he smiled. "Niccolo Marciante," he greeted, bowing his head and kissing Hermione's knuckles. Oh, how she wished she could fight off the blush.

"Hermione Weasley," she answered, trying to sound light despite the aggravation of having to still use her soon-to-be ex-husband's name.

Niccolo nodded. "I gathered as much. And this must be Draco Malfoy?" he asked, stretching his arm towards the blond wizard. Draco shook it, confirming Niccolo's suspicions. "I will be your guide here in Italy. Welcome to Roma!" he called loudly, sounding proud. "Sadly, we will not have much time to sightsee. The floo that connects the Ministry to the hotel is restricted, and will be shut off at 9:45, so we must hurry in order to arrive directly to the lobby."

Hermione nodded, still absolutely enchanted by the decoration. Draco noticed and rolled his eyes; she was such an enthusiast about everything. Niccolo offered her his arm, which she took, dragging her suitcase behind. Draco rolled his eyes. Niccolo could obviously learn a few things.

"So, Labrosse?" began Niccolo, raising a perfect eyebrow at her.

At this point, she wasn't interested in whether or not he was extremely attractive or womanizing. Just the fact that she was not the only one interested in the wizard Renaissance, and all the advancements—the use of heartstring cores in wands, the development of everlasting ink quills, and the creation of essence of Dittany for healing—that came of it. She thought that the artwork, in particular, was especially fascinating. "Oh, yes," she began to explain eagerly. "He was so advanced for his time. His unorthodox use of bright colours in ordinary paintings was absolutely revolutionary."

"Well, Muggle painters certainly took a while in reaching that innovation on their own," Niccolo agreed, holding the door open gallantly for her.

Behind them, Draco scoffed, extremely annoyed. _Am I not here or something? _he thought to himself.

"When I was a little girl, my parents used to take me to other cities during vacations. Once, we went to Paris and visited the Louvre Museum." She smiled sadly, casting her gaze downwards. Niccolo's brow furrowed; she seemed very nostalgic. "I was nine, and I had no idea about the wizarding world." She paused for a moment, gauging Niccolo's reaction. Might he be prejudiced? "I was so amazed by the sculptures, the paintings. I thought they were the greatest things in the world. And then, when I was seventeen—before the war really began—I convinced them to let me go to a wizarding museum. Labrosse was the first wizarding painting I ever saw."

"What piece?" asked Niccolo, his voice soft now. Draco fought the urge to gag. Was he really hitting on _her_? The bloke seemed nice, suave, somewhat handsome. He could do _so _much better. Besides, _she was married._

Hermione grinned. "_Due Pezzi d'Oro e Il Sole_. Labrosse painted his love, Isadora Maddalena, with only yellows and golds. Even her obsidian hair had streaks of rose gold. He painted her dress and the background with rich purples and blues. It was breath-taking."

"Ah, yes, I have seen that one," nodded Niccolo, remembering now. "It was a tragic story. Labrosse was a French pureblood wizard. Isadora was an Italian Muggle-born peasant." Hermione's eyebrows shot up, as she had not known that Isadora was merely a peasant. By the painting, one would have thought she was a queen. She supposed that the girl had been romanticized by the painter's love for her. "He saw her once, and never again. He was her senior by twenty years, yet he fell in love with her immediately. They met for one whole day. She was just as taken by him, but had instead married another farmer." His voice became sombre, low. "Labrosse turned his wand on himself the day he found out."

Hermione bit her lip, saddened by the story. She had never known this, only that Isadora and Labrosse's love was forbidden due to their countries and heritage.

Draco cleared his throat once he realized that the trio had come to a full stop. "As depressing as _that_ was," he began sarcastically, earning a hateful glare from Hermione, "didn't you say something about arriving quickly to the floo, Niccolo?"

"I did, yes," agreed Niccolo, nodding dutifully as they turned a corner. Hermione glowered at Draco over her shoulder. She had _finally_ been able to have a nice, intellectual conversation with someone, and of course he had to sabotage it! Niccolo dug through his pockets even as they passed several Ministry workers. Hermione did her best to nod politely, not knowing sufficient (or any, as a matter of fact) Italian to be able to respond. Draco nodded as well, though, since he was all but fluent in Italian, more of lack of manners than of vocabulary.

Finally, they arrived at a great fireplace with the familiar green flames. As far as appearances go, this was one of the most luxurious fireplaces Hermione had ever laid her eyes on. It was pure marble, with occasional golden flecks—_very_ _Italian Renaissance,_ she thought to herself gleefully. She was hardly able to contain herself from running a hand softly over the perfectly sculpted floral designs, instead contenting herself with maintaining a firm grip on Niccolo's arm.

"The hotel is _L'Incantato Uno_. I will floo over first, _Signora _Weasley will come after, and _Signor_ Malfoy will be third. Well," he said, extracting his arm from Hermione's, who let go as if he had burned her skin, "off I go." He grabbed some of the powder sitting inside a golden vase next to the fireplace. "_Ciao!_"

With that, he stepped into the flames, throwing the powder and shouting, "_L'Incantato Uno!_"

Hermione watched as he vanished in a burst of the green flames. She, too, picked a handful of powder and dragged her suitcase into the tickling flames. A moment before she threw the powder, however, she was stopped by Draco's surprisingly warm hand gripping her arm. "Let _go_, Malfoy, I could have seriously hurt you!" she snapped. _I ought to have done that, actually._

His eyes were dangerously narrow, and she guessed that he was not going to spare her feelings in his next words. For his part, he was too angry to let this go. Sure, he had often been the culprit in similar, typically more severe situations, but he had mistakenly thought that she would have more class than that. "First off, _Weasley_, he looks to be thirty years old. _Thirty_. And second of all, have you forgotten that you are fucking _married_? What would the original Weasel think of this little flirting you've got going on?"

Hermione's brows furrowed sadly, though not for the same reason he predicted. No, she was wounded because she knew suddenly that Ron would grieve no matter where she found her next partner—because, God forgive her, she was not going to stay a single divorcee forever. That said, she really did not think Draco Malfoy, of all people, should have a say in how she manages her broken marriage. "Listen, _ferret_," she hissed back at him, "I am not flirting with him. I am having a nice, intellectual conversation! I feel sorry for you—really, I do—that you would not recognize that if it were right in front of you, as it _is_! And also, I hardly think you are one to tell me how to behave myself in my marriage! That is _none_ of your business, you infuriating git!"

"Insufferable bint," he spat back, angry that she insinuated that anything was wrong with his marriage. Sure, it was crumbling, and he already found a next wife, but it would still be nice to not be reminded of his fickleness every minute.

"I—why, I should—_urgh_! _L'Incantato Uno_!" she yelled, throwing down the powder and vanishing, too, in a swirl of emerald.

Waiting for her at the hotel's lobby was Niccolo, as he had said he would be. He was casually leaning against a white decorative pillar, though it was rather small. He was carefully examining his nails, endlessly amused by the shouting that had come through the fireplace. _He thought I was flirting with her—ha!_ he thought to himself, smirking as he shook his head. When she all but stumbled out of the fireplace, he rushed to grab her arms, keeping her from falling. She unclipped the bun holding up her hair, and shook it out, deciding it had been up long enough. He scowled slightly; he had a sudden urge to help her with that mane. Instead, he opted to help pull out her suitcase before the blond wizard landed on it.

"Are you alright?" he asked, dragging it up to his feet. She nodded, straightening out her jacket. With her fingers, she brushed her hair away, huffing as she did so, and grabbed the handle to her suitcase. "I heard you and _Signor _Malfoy arguing over the floo. Sorry for eavesdropping," he added sheepishly. "Is everything under control? Perhaps I should not be so friendly—I really did not mean anything by it, even though you are beautiful—so as to not upset your husband?"

Hermione was frozen on the spot the moment he admitted he had been eavesdropping, but when he mentioned her husband she felt her knees buckle under her weight. Was everyone going to play Mr Morals with her? "It's alright, my husband and I…well, we are in a strange situation at the moment. But, um, it would not worry him. Not that I think you were, you know," her cheeks turned red under her sputtering. "I mean, I didn't think you were flirting or anything, and I went on this trip to get away from my husband, for a bit."

Niccolo looked bewildered, but decided not to say anything else, even as Draco Malfoy tripped out of the fireplace. "Fucking Italians," he muttered angrily, smoothing his hair back with his fingers. Hermione narrowed her eyes at his language, and Niccolo raised an eyebrow.

"_Signora _Weasley," he began, but she quickly stopped him and told him to call her Hermione. "Alright, Hermione, if you were trying to, er, get away from your husband for a bit…why is he—I mean, why would you bring him along?"

Hermione cocked her head to the side, confused. Draco, however, caught on to the meaning immediately, and looked at her. As soon as realization dawned on her, she stared at him, and a couple of seconds passed before she guffawed and he pretended to dry-heave. "You—you think—oh, _Merlin_!" she laughed loudly, letting her head fall back as her chuckles racked her shoulders. "Oh, _God_ no! My husband is Ron Weasley, _not _Draco Malfoy!" She calmed down a fraction, and turned to look at Draco, only to erupt in more laughter.

Draco thought he was going to be sick. Him, married to her? "If I were her, I would count my lucky stars to find a husband like me!" he declared arrogantly, glowering at her.

She finally was able to stand up straight again, the laughter in her having died out. "Wha—really, now?" she asked, starting to get offended. "Well, if I were _you_, I would count _my _lucky stars to find a wife that won't just want you for your endowed _wallet_!"

Niccolo had to physically restrain himself from bursting out laughing at the little confrontation. Were they always like this? He crossed his arms tightly, trying to hide the fact that his almost imperceptible belly was rising and falling quickly with his suppressed laughter.

"Endowed wallet? If I were you, I would—"

"Alright, let's not fight in the lobby," said Niccolo, finally stepping in the middle and holding his arms out between the couple. He glanced over at the witch at the desk, who looked scared by the racket they were displaying. She was an old friend, and would therefore not be kicking any of them out soon; but he still disliked disrupting her lobby. He took Hermione by her elbow and, dragging the suitcase behind him, led them down a corridor towards their room. Draco trailed behind them unhappily.

With a flick of Niccolo's wand, the door to Hermione's room swung open, to reveal a modest little compartment. It was smaller than her room at the Granger house, but equally as practical. It was obviously an en suite, with a small closet with six cabinets and a bathroom with a low shower and a simple toilet. A single light bulb flickered miserably overhead, its dim yellow glow hardly aiding her. This, however, was one of the few complaints she had of the room. Otherwise, it was very…cosy. The bed was, as expected, a low twin with a plump mattress and matching, cream-coloured pillows. The closet consisted of a metre-long rack a couple of metres above ground, along with four thick wooden cabinets. Admittedly, it was no Holiday Inn, but it was comfortable and—as she reminded herself—temporary.

"You may get comfortable in here," Niccolo told her from the doorway, a hand on the knob. Draco stood behind him, looking as impatient as ever. "There is a tour of the city that departs in a couple of hours. They stop for lunch at a vineyard on the outskirts of town, and go past the banks of the river. You can check out the site for a while if you wish."

"Thank you," she told him earnestly, pulling her suitcase to stand in front of the closet. "Will you be going on the tour as well?"

"Me? No, I am occupied with a date this evening," Niccolo revealed, grinning a bit sheepishly. She smiled at his comment; Draco, on the other hand, glared at him. "And just so you know, it is a Muggle tour, so I do advise that you be discreet."

Hermione couldn't hold back some good-natured teasing. "Ooh, who is the lucky lady?" she cooed, laying the suitcase down and fishing for her wand in her pocket.

"_Lady_?" repeated Niccolo, sounding oddly bewildered. "Oh! No, that is not exactly my _preference_," he admitted, winking at Hermione as he disappeared from the doorway with a miniature salute.

Hermione, who had finally found her wand, hexed the door shut on Malfoy's incredulous grin.


End file.
